


You Always Knew the Melody, But You’d Never Heard it Rhyme

by theshipsfirstmate



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Felicity as a Single Parent, Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon, Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon 2018, olicity - Freeform, post-season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 17:32:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14878217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshipsfirstmate/pseuds/theshipsfirstmate
Summary: post-6x23. Felicity comes to terms with being a newly single parent.“The diamond on her left hand catches the sunlight, and it reminds her how the right things can become beautiful under pressure.”For the Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon 2018: Week 1 - Revelation.





	You Always Knew the Melody, But You’d Never Heard it Rhyme

_A/N: Hi guys! So I’m writing a post-s6 fic without having watched s6 and it’s pretty much[@effie214](https://tmblr.co/mg9AdUwAhmQiiglXfvbBdTQ)’s fault. Forgive me if there’s anything grievously wrong (again, no idea what happened other than gifsets I saw) but all credit to her if you like it._

_This was also inspired by the[first Hiatus Fic-a-Thon prompt](https://olicityhiatusficathon.tumblr.com/post/174484821625/olicity-hiatus-fic-a-thon-2018-week-1-hello#notes): “Revelation,” (thanks to [@thebookjumper](https://tmblr.co/m5dHkZtSRsMVwisBWxM2mNQ) for that!) because I saw it and couldn’t stop thinking about Felicity realizing that Oliver had turned her into her mother. And because I’m me, that became a few thousand words of angst. It’s great to be back._

_Title from[“The Mother”](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DKbepr98Ftkc&t=ZGZmMGU5NTgyMDQ3YTNjZDc5ZWZjZjc0ZWNlNDc3ODAwZDM4YTE4ZixpNjYwck12VQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AiAw4tJIAalN1OvhWtUFPsQ&p=http%3A%2F%2Ftheshipsfirstmate.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F174691224824%2Farrow-fic-you-always-knew-the-melody-but-youd) by Brandi Carlile._

**You Always Knew the Melody, But You’d Never Heard it Rhyme**

The rest of the day passes in a dull, aching blur.

Save for a few important moments that remain crystal clear in her memory, from the second Felicity loses sight of the armored federal van that’s taking Oliver away, it’s like she’s moving on autopilot. Digg says something that sounds reassuring – even though she can’t really make out his words – and a uniformed man presses a packet of papers into her hands with an uneasy half-smile. When she looks down, it takes a few blinks before she can make out the forms, stamped with booking numbers and information on picking up personal effects

William stands at her side in the aftermath, stock still and quiet like always, and it takes her maybe too long to realize that he’s waiting on her.

She needs to get him fed. She needs to get him home. She needs to keep him safe. The routine isn’t that far out of the ordinary, but she’s hyper-aware that it’s just the two of them now. This could be their new normal, something that lasts for weeks or months or years, she realizes, and her heart breaks all over again for the boy beside her – who lost the mother he’s had all his life and the father he just got to know, one after the other. Now all he has is her.

Amid the storm inside, the revelation hits Felicity like a bolt of summer lightning, cracking wide and bright across the black, and illuminating something she’s not sure she’s ready to see.

She’s a mother now. She had been before, in a sense, had warily made her peace with the “fun stepmom” role and found herself enjoying it more than she ever thought she could. She adores spending time with William, loves the family she and Oliver have made with a heart-rending ferocity and cherished every moment, despite how it all came together.

But this is something else entirely.

Now, she’s essentially a single parent, and there are so many terrifying added levels stacking up on that reality. She’s someone else’s whole world, and it doesn’t matter that she didn’t plan this, didn’t even have time to strategize the adjustment. It doesn’t matter that she never dreamt of this life as a girl – or since – never played “Mommy” to a doll with wide, unmoving eyes and floral-scented hair. None of that matters now. William is what matters.

Felicity thinks of her own mother, and then she thinks of strawberry ice cream.

_She remembers knowing immediately that something was off that day, when her mother offered her ice cream right after school. It was the good stuff, too – Häagen-Dazs, not the syrupy block of ice from the drug store case. Donna had plied her with a giant bowl of strawberry, her favorite, when she decided to break the news, and it took Felicity years to realize that it was probably to slow the inevitable deluge of questions about why her father had left, and when he was coming back. It was a way for Donna to keep her daughter from realizing how few answers she had to offer._

To this day, strawberry ice cream still makes her a little nauseous. Mint chocolate chip, on the other hand, has never reminded her of watching her mother’s mascara smudge off onto a pile of crumpled Kleenex.

She finds herself oddly comforted when she’s ordering takeout for them later and remembers there’s a pint in the freezer – but the feeling is quickly sunk by the memory of how Oliver had kissed her sweetly when she pulled it out of the grocery bag last week, shrugging his shoulders as she half-heartedly scolded him about sticking to the list.

_“I want you to have everything you need,” he had whispered against her lips, “_ and _everything you want.”_

The food comes to the door eventually, and Felicity hopes William doesn’t see the way she jumps when the delivery woman knocks. It’s from one of their favorite places, but she barely tastes a thing as the two of them drift into half-consciousness in front of a Netflix show that pauses every few episodes to make them come to terms with their own humanity, in the form of an on-screen prompt that reads more and more condescending every time it asks if they’re still watching.

She gets up for more wine at one point, and realizes she should clear the dishes. That’s something a mother would do. It’s a battle against her ugliest instincts, a war against the way her broken heart is begging her to wallow in Oliver’s absence, to sink into the couch and never stand up, to run as fast as she can away from the black hole of hurt that’s threatening to consume everything she loves about this life. But she doesn’t have that option anymore.

“We’ll get him back,” she offers, voice only cracking a little, when she realizes William’s watching her instead of the screen. They’ve had some version of this conversation before, but she doesn’t know how else to reassure him. “I’m not sure how, yet. But he always comes back.”

The boy doesn’t offer a response at first, just leans forward on the sofa to silently help her stack up the plastic and foam containers and shakes his head in response when she asks if he wants any dessert. When she returns from the kitchen, though, he has a question that pulls the rug from under her.

“Is this the worst it’s ever been?”

“No.” Felicity answers on pure, base instinct, as her forehead burns with a flashback to a kiss that came with a declaration and her fingers twitch at the sense memory of the mottled patch of scar tissue just under Oliver’s rib cage. But then she considers. “Maybe.”

Looking into his son’s worried eyes, she knows that there are things more tragic than death. Especially for Oliver. “This will probably be the worst time for him.”

“Because of me.” Felicity forgets sometimes, because he’s so quiet, just how insightful William can be. She makes herself promise, in that moment, never to hurt him with an obvious lie.

Instead she just gives him a watery nod. “Because of how much he loves you.”

“And you too.”

“Yeah, and me too.” This time around, at least she’s sure of that much.

She thinks back to the moments that William is asking about without knowing – all the times Oliver has died, or come within a breath, all the times he’s run, every tiny tragedy that forced him to sell his soul or sacrifice his humanity. They were selfless actions, ultimately, but that hadn’t stopped the pieces of Felicity’s heart from chipping away every time. Each hurt is a little different, she’s learned, warped in a way that makes it impossible to fully anticipate.

“Your dad has always been someone who would do anything for his family,” she finds herself repeating softly, flashing back again to the old bunker and the weathered longing of the girl she had been then. “I just wish you two had more time, before….”

Her voice is so close to cracking, and she doesn’t want William to hear it, so she leaves the end of the sentence where it lies and reaches behind her on the couch for a blanket. But she freezes with the folded fleece in her hand when he speaks again.

“If you believe the team can get him back, then so do I.” They can still have that time, he’s trying to tell her. There’s still a future where Oliver gets the chance to be the father he was trying so hard to become, where he gets the family he’s been longing for. They just have to find their way there.

It’s a cautious but optimistic kind of faith that William has, endearing and trusting, and Felicity wonders where it comes from. Maybe it’s his mother’s, maybe it’s an echo of the pre-Gambit Oliver she never had a chance to know. That he’s willing to place that faith in her, however, she knows where that comes from just as surely as the blue in his eyes.

“I do believe it,” she tells him, tasting the words in her mouth and realizing that’s they’re true. “And I believe in your dad.”

“Me too.” He lays back across his end of the couch then, and pulls his legs up parallel to hers, sharing the blanket when she offers it. A few episodes later, his eyes are closed and the light, steady sound of his breathing echoes around her when the Netflix screen goes to black again.

Felicity stands after a long moment, and takes in the sight of Oliver’s son, sleeping on the couch, as a pang of domestic nostalgia plunges through her chest. He’s surely exhausted, but he looks peaceful in a way she knows is impossible, and her eyes offer up a fresh round of tears when she realizes that, if Oliver were here, he could carry him to bed. Without his strength, her options are limited to either leaving William to sleep on the couch or waking him and having to watch the day’s events wash over him again. There’s not really a choice to make.

She tucks the blanket up a little higher, pressing a kiss to his forehead and switching off the TV and the nearby lights before climbing the stairs to her own room, where another heartbreak awaits.

Felicity slept alone for years before Oliver, but since they’ve been together, something inside her has shifted. The prospect of getting into a bed that doesn’t have him in it feels crushingly, hopelessly lonely in a way it never used to. But she’s bone-tired too, so she washes her face and changes into one of his old hoodies, wrapping herself in the scent of his soap and favorite fabric softener, before curling around his pillow and crying herself into a fitful slumber.

It doesn’t last long. She drifts in and out for a while before she accepts that she’s just too anxious to get any real rest. Instead, she lays there and thinks about what lies ahead. She wonders how long Oliver will be gone this time, how much he’ll miss. She worries about his safety and agonizes over the likelihood that the person who will hurt him the most while he’s locked up is already in that one-man cell with him. She considers how grateful she is that Thea wasn’t here to watch her brother get dragged away again, even though Felicity selfishly longs for the support. And she thinks about the boy downstairs, who is now looking to her as his only parent.

Before she realizes it, she’s spent a few hours working herself into something of a frenzy. But even then, she has to wait a little longer until it’s a semi-reasonable hour to make a phone call.

There’s at least a half dozen well-thought-out questions on the tip of her tongue as she dials the number, but the second Felicity hears her mother’s voice, there’s only one thing she can think to ask.

“How did you do it?”

She sounds like a stranger to her own ears, but thankfully, Donna is with her immediately.  _“Felicity? What’s wrong?”_

The tears start to fall immediately. Maybe they never stopped.

“How did you do it, mom? When dad left, how did you…” The words catch in her throat on an emotional trip wire that leaves her sputtering.

_“Hon, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”_

“Oliver’s… Oliver has to go away for a while. You might see something on the news.” Her mother’s not one to spend much time on the internet, but Felicity cringes at the thought of Donna flipping channels and coming across Oliver’s perp walk.

_“Oh baby,”_  her mother croons mournfully,  _“I’m so sorry.”_

“Yeah. Me too.” Felicity feels a panicked stutter in her chest, and tries to will her heart rate down with deep, shuddering breaths. “I just… I’m so worried. For him, and for William.”

All her calming techniques are for naught, though, because there are tears in Donna’s voice now, and it’s a contagious kind of thing.  _“That poor, sweet boy. How is he taking it?”_

“He’s as good as can be expected, I guess. But mom, I can't… I don’t know how to do this by myself. Parenting, and everything. I’ve never done it without Oliver.”

_“Well, you love him, right?”_

“Yeah, of course,” she answers dumbly. “He’s my husband.” It’s as simple as that, or at least it should be. She’s loved Oliver since before she even knew what it was, and she plans to love him forever; she should be able to do this for him without a second thought.

But her mother interrupts her train of guilty, weighted thought before she can take it over the cliff.  _“Not Oliver, hon. William.”_

“Oh. Yeah. Yes, of course.” It’s the truth, and Felicity knows it, even if the veracity of it surprises her a little. Just a year ago, she had been shell-shocked at the boy’s mere existence, and now he has his very own compartment in her heart. “Of course I do.”

_“Then that’s where you start,”_  Donna tells her, matter of fact.  _“Kids need a lot. But that’s what they need the most.”_

She wonders if her mother’s always been this wise, or if this is just something that kicks in when your kid needs you. She wonders if that’s something she’ll find out on her own.

“I don’t want to ruin his life. I don’t want him to think I’m trying to be his mom.”

_“Oh, baby, you won’t ruin his life.”_  Donna sounds so certain, still, and it might be silly but it helps.  _“You do your best for that boy and he’ll be better for it. I’m sure of that. Hard times can make good people strong. Remember what Bubbe used to say about diamonds?”_

Felicity makes a soft sound of acknowledgement, though she’s fairly certain the metaphor was not unique to her grandmother.

_“I hate that’s it’s true, but you’re a shining example of that, my darling girl,”_ her mother says, with a different kind of ache in her voice. _“And, for that matter, so is Oliver. I’d say William’s got a pretty good shot.”_

The words temper things a bit, but the mention of her own formative fatherless years stokes another kind of worry.

“Mom, you might start hearing some things about Oliver as all of this plays out. I want you to know, he…”

_“Honey, I know everything I need to know,”_ Donna interrupts, waving her off with a casual tone.  _“That husband of yours is a good man with a good heart, and I knew it the first time I met him – just like I know that it would take death or the devil himself to drag him away from you.”_

If only her mother knew how many times they’ve actually contended with those threats exactly, Felicity thinks. Still, something in Donna’s assessment soothes the feral bit of panic that’s made itself a home in her gut until it feels almost manageable. “Thanks, mom.”

_“As for William,”_ her mother adds,  _“you don’t have to love him like he’s yours, you know. You just have to love him.”_

They say their goodbyes with a promise to talk soon, and Felicity pulls herself out of bed to make her way downstairs and start the first day of whatever this is going to be. William’s already up, standing on his tiptoes at the counter, dunking slices of bread into a large mixing bowl.

She stands for a moment on the stairs, watching him, and then suddenly, she’s transported back to the tiny kitchen at her mother’s apartment in Vegas. She sees herself, boiling water for Kraft macaroni and cheese, tiny glasses fogging up because she’s just barely taller than the saucepan on the stovetop. To this day, there’s still a silvery patch of skin on the back of her wrist, from the handful of times she had overshot the colander with the steaming pot of boiling pasta.

But that won’t happen to William. That kind of latchkey loneliness won’t ever be his life. She will not fall to pieces in his father’s absence and, mercifully, they have the resources to ensure that he won’t have to fend for himself until he’s good and ready.

Felicity gives her head a definitive shake, banishing the memory to the recesses of her mind, and continues down the stairs.

“Morning,” William says, with only a half glance up. She wonders if he knew she was standing there, watching.

“Morning,” she answers, then clears her throat, because that’s a stranger’s voice.  “French Toast?”

“Dad showed me how the other week.” He looks down at the open notepad again – Oliver’s makeship recipe book, Felicity realizes – and scrunches his nose up as he reads the longhand scribbles on the page.

That’s another mannerism that must come from Samantha, Felicity thinks. She wishes there were a way to save these things for him to recall later – when the wounds aren’t so fresh. She hopes he’ll be able to see his mother in himself as he gets older, to savor the memories of a woman she never got a chance to know.

“Is…is that okay?” 

Felicity looks up and sees William with an egg-soaked slice of bread in hand and a concerned look on his face, worried that her sudden silence is disapproval.

“Oh, yeah, of course!” she sputters, taking a seat. “Yeah, it smells great. Thanks.”

She does love him, Felicity thinks a few moments later, as he deftly switches off the burner and brings the plates to the kitchen island, sitting to her right on the stool she already thinks of as his. Fiercely, too. She’s not sure, exactly when it happened, or how. But she loves William for the boy he is, separately from her love for his father. And she believes her mother when she says that’s the most important thing.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, but she can practically feel William working himself up to ask her a question. When he does, it’s not at all what she expected.

“Will you tell me the story of the computer?”

Felicity glances at him with a confused frown. “The computer with the bullets in it, the first time you met my dad. You said you’d tell me the story someday.”

“Oh! Yeah, I guess I did, didn’t I?” she laughs, a little bit in relief, dragging the last bite of her breakfast through the syrup pooled on the plate. “Well, there’s not much more to it than that. You know the Palmer Tech building? That used to be Queen Consolidated, Oliver’s family’s company.”

Felicity expects a reaction of some kind, but William just nods. This is either old news or an uninteresting detail in the tale he really wants to hear.

“I worked there, in the IT department, and one day, my boss’s boss’s son came to me with a laptop that was clearly riddled with bullet holes and a bogus story about how it wasn’t working because he spilled coffee on it.”

“And you helped him?” William asks with a grin. “Why?”

“Curiosity, at first. I knew he was hiding something and I wanted to know what it was.”

“And that’s when you fell in love with him?”

She laughs at the incredulous tone of his voice. “Yes. Well, maybe.” William screws up his face again at the indistinct. Felicity remembers what it used to be like, to hear people talk about love before you knew exactly how it felt to have that kind of longing loop its way through your insides and pull.

“I think I probably did love him then, but I don’t think I knew it until I joined the team,” she admits wistfully. “I always felt like I was meant to be doing something… bigger, you know? I just didn’t know what. And I didn’t know how to get there.”

She thinks of the people she used to be: the lost little girl, the straight-edge know-it-all mathlete, the reckless daredevil hacktivist. She thinks of the bits of them that are still left in her, that shape the woman she is today.

“When I met your dad – really met him, hood and arrows and raccoon eyes and all – it was like… so many of the pieces of my life started to come together,” she tells William. “I started to see where everything fit.”

“How did you find out who he was?” She knows the boy is asking for the specifics of his father’s life as a vigilante, but it hits her like a heavier question. Maybe they’re one in the same.

“He was hurt, and he came to me.” She spares him the imagery of Moira’s gun and Oliver flatlining in the dingy old lair. “He had to take off his mask, so that I’d trust him.”

“And you did?”

“Yeah, I did. Still do. Always have.”

“But you also said he lied,” William remembers with a small frown. “That he kept secrets.”

“Yeah, he has.” Felicity nods solemnly. “And it hurts, but it’s complicated, because when he does those things, he’s usually doing it for a virtuous reason, to save someone else.”

“Just like yesterday.” Again, the boy’s capacity to piece together the fragmented details of their jagged lives takes her by surprise.

“Exactly like yesterday,” she agrees. “I’m mad as hell at him for making that call on his own. And I’m furious that there wasn’t a better way out. But he did it for us. And I can’t hate him for that. If anything, some part of me loves him even more for it.”

William just nods again. “Me too.” But that soft reassurance seems to be the end of it, for now, as he stands to clear the dishes, insisting on washing up himself, despite her half-hearted offer to help.

Felicity knows there’s probably some other conversation they should be having now, about family and responsibilities and who’s taking care of who, but she’s emotionally drained already, and that was only breakfast. So she puts that talk away in her mind for a while, retreating to her office instead and rooting through the desk drawers until she finds the keys to the storage locker garage with the shiny luxury fob attached.

It’s worth it, because William cracks his first real smile in days when she asks if he’s ever been to Vegas.

They pack a few days of clothes into small bags that will fit in the Porsche, and Felicity hazards a call to Digg, cursing her eyes for welling up at the sound of his voice, a familiar touchstone in a world that feels upside-down right now.

He doesn’t like her plan. She hadn’t expected him to. “Diaz is going to be coming for revenge, Felicity. Soon.” But she thinks he knows better than to try and talk her out of it right now.

“That seems like an okay time to get the heck out of town, to me.”

He can’t argue much with that, and after a lengthy rundown of the security precautions she’s already planned – plus a few suggestions on Digg’s end that sound suspiciously ARGUS-influenced – he sounds slightly more satisfied.

“Call me. Frequently,” he insists.

“You too,” she answers, eyes flooding again. “And if anything happens…”

“We got it, Felicity.” It’s good that he says so, and quickly, because she can’t even begin to consider the tragedies that could live in that ellipses. “You two take care of each other.”

“We will.” She grins just a little in spite of herself. “Hugs to Lyla and the Digglet. We’ll see you soon.”

The sun’s just barely up as they head out of town, but William asks if they can put the top down anyway. It’s a lucky thing, because the wind whips Felicity’s glassy eyes dry when they hit the stretch of highway where Oliver once turned to her and said “I’m happy,” like he couldn’t quite believe it himself.

The diamond on her left hand catches the rising sunlight, and it reminds her how the right things can become beautiful under pressure. She’s done this before, built a home without bricks or mortar and held onto happiness with nothing more than her own two hands. She can do it again, she’s certain of it.

She reaches over to the passenger’s seat to ruffle William’s hair and he gives her a cautious smile that looks so much like his father’s it cuts right through her.

They had made it then, the two of them. They survived so much for their moment in the sun, and Felicity knows in her heart that those are only the first few chapters of their story. She can do it again, for Oliver, and for his son. She’s someone who can do anything for her family.

* * *

_A/N: Sight of the Son, amirite? (That’s a joke for the OG readers, but sure, newbies, if you’re down for a Porsche-load of post-s3 feelings, go ahead and[check it out.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4398218/chapters/9986597)) I’ll see myself out._

_A/N 2: I cannot believe myself, but I actually have some bits written for a second part of this if anyone’s interested._


End file.
